


as the tide rolls

by whatsarasays



Category: Death Stranding (Video Games)
Genre: Action, Adventure, Angst, Ficlets, Fluff, Gen, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Game, in-game, pre-game, ships if you want, world building
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-02-23 07:36:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23207956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatsarasays/pseuds/whatsarasays
Summary: Ficlets and one-shots within the world of Death Stranding.Generated from Tumblr prompts.Various characters, genres, and ratings.
Relationships: BB-28 | Louise & Sam Porter Bridges, Fragile & Higgs Monaghan, Heartman & Mama, Sam Porter Bridges & Fragile, Sam Porter Bridges & Heartman, Sam Porter Bridges & Mama
Comments: 29
Kudos: 37





	1. shoreline sickness. (higgs, fragile)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt:** How about a drabble about the first time Fragile brought Higgs to her beach?  
>  **Characters:** Higgs Monaghan, Fragile  
>  **Rating:** PG-13/T (Language)  
>  **Genre:** General, Pre-Game

_Click, click; click, click._

The rapid succession of the pen nib contracting and retracting kept in time with Higgs’ thoughts.

Space was limited in the compact cities, so when Fragile Express and Western Courier Co. merged, they opted to share the office located in Fragile Express’s central hub. It was tight, but Higgs didn’t mind. It gave him a front-row seat to his new partner’s abilities. Fragile wasn’t one to show off, but neither did she attempt to hide her extensive DOOMS. On top of accompanying premium shipments through hazardous trails dense with BTs, he often caught her jumping throughout the facility when she was in a hurry. She’d blip in-and-out like a flashbulb, the scent of sea-salt always trailing close behind, so pungent it taunted him with its taste.

_Click, click._

Higgs watched her as she mapped out new routes for their outfit. She was lost in her problem-solving with her pretty brow slanted in concentration, the green glow of the three-dimensional landscape reflecting off her delicate features as she scrutinized its geography. What marvels had she seen? How could she just sit there, scrolling through maps, when she had experienced The Beach? _The Beach._

 _Click._

Higgs pondered the possibilities a link to The Beach could bring, how it could connect them. Knit the broken fabric of humanity back together. Sure, they were knotting the world through cargo, but could that grid be stretched further? Net-in the corners of civilization? Without access, he’d never know.

“Is everything alright?” Fragile interrupted, “You’re staring.”

“My apologies,” Higgs shook his head and graced her with his most charming smile, “Sometimes I feel like my brain gallops this way and that and I’m just along for the ride.”

“Well, let me know if you crash into any ideas about these routes. I don’t know where else to cut corners and still keep the porters safe.”

Higgs rolled his chair over to the holograph drafting table where she was working. He had no qualms over saddling right up right next to her, their shoulders pressed together. Getting in another’s space revealed a lot about them. Fragile didn’t shy away, and that said something about her bravery. Whether or not that bravery was foolish, he had yet to learn.

Pointing with his pen, Higgs traced out a mountain passageway through the three-dimensional projection, “We used to go through here every once in a while. It’s a pain in the ass—rocky and overgrown—but no BTs. It’ll cut down a bit of time. Maybe twenty minutes.”

Fragile hummed in approval. He knew she counted every second. Any reduction in delivery time was a win. As she entered the calculations into a separate datapad, losing herself in the betterment of her business, Higgs realized this was his chance.

He propped his elbow on the desk and cradled chin in his palm as he casually threw out, “There might be a way to use The Beach.”

Fragile kept typing but quirked an eyebrow in interest, “How so?”

“Not sure yet, but I’ve been turning it over,” he shrugged, “Never been to a Beach, though, so I’m not familiar with the parameters, physics—hell, anything. But it seems like a waste not to look into it.”

After throwing a glance to the clock in the corner of her datapad, Fragile stopped working to meet his gaze, “I’ve got an hour before I need to be at the sorting bay, why don’t I take you to The Beach to get your creativity going?”

Higgs almost dropped his pen. Convincing her was easier than he thought it would be. She really just offered to take him to The Beach. _The Beach._ Like it was nothing.His jaw went slack as he started to comprehend what was about to happen. Ever since he’d dragged that body to the grove outside of a rusted-out Oklahoma bunker, felt the majesty of decay seeping out through its seams, he had longed for this.

“Really, Higgs,” Fragile mirrored his position on the desk, cheek braced with a fist, “If you wanted to go so bad, you could have asked me sooner.”

“That obvious?”

“That obvious. Now, come on,” she rose from her seat, “let’s go to The Beach.”

Unsure of the process, Higgs stood and let her guide him in front of her with her hands bracketing his shoulders. The height difference was awkward, and she had to reach. She said something about the jump requiring touch, so he hooked his hands over the crooks of her elbows. It was almost like an embrace.

“Cozy,” he quipped, “Don’t you need your fancy umbrella for this?”

“Not if we’re just going to my Beach and back. But taking people isn’t easy,” Fragile shushed him as she closed her eyes, “Stay quiet, so I can concentrate.”

They lapsed into silence, and Higgs became aware of their tandem breathing. It seemed like a sacred ceremony. Beaches were personal, and Fragile was permitting him to see hers. He stilled in reverence, allowing his neck to dip until his forehead grazed the stray hairs at the top of her head. As he exhaled and his lids slipped shut, he let himself be consumed by this communal prayer. 

(In a world where whales leapt from tar pits and the dead haunted the earth, belief in the supernatural made complete sense to him).

The air fissured and snapped with chirality. Electricity reverberated in his teeth, leaving an acrid flavor in his mouth. It was like they were in a vacuum, a void, where there was no air, no light, no sound, and yet everything in the universe was pressing in on them all at once. For a split-second, he felt it again. That undercurrent of power that crackled from corpses as they necrotized.

It felt _so good._

It was over as quickly as it began. The world came rushing back with such speed that it made his ears pop. But it was different. Instead of steel beneath his boots, he felt the ground gave way as pliant sand. A soft breeze whispered against his eyelashes. The air was dense with moisture.

Higgs dared to open his eyes.

Unraveling his fists from the nylon fabric of Fragile’s jumpsuit, he took a step back and observed the coastline before him. It was monochromatic. Black razor ridges towered against a silvery sky, while smaller jagged rocks poked through the dusty blankets of sand. Along the shore, stalks of kelp rolled in the white-capped tide. The ocean depths beyond called out as the hush of water faded in-and-out, a most perfect symphony for these holy grounds.

It was _everything_.

Higgs let out a long low whistle and turned to give Fragile a wink.

Amused by his antics, she smiled, “I’m guessing you approve?”

“It’s beautiful,” he returned her grin with a lopsided smirk that revealed a single too-sharp canine, “Absolutely fuckin’ beautiful.”


	2. paternal instinct. (heartman, sam, louise)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompt:** throwing in a request for anything death stranding!  
>  **Characters:** Heartman, Sam Porter Bridges, Louise  
>  **Rating:** PG/K+  
>  **Genre:** General, Fluff, Mild Hurt/Comfort

It was a generous pour—certainly more than the recommended “two-finger” serving. Heartman tried not to fault himself. It had been a long journey back from the inauguration in Capitol Knot. Swiveling his chair toward the expansive window which beheld the view of his (and he did refer to it as “his”) love heart crater, he considered the implications of the past few weeks. Amelie. The Stranding. Samantha Spade.

A shy smile piqued the corner of his mouth at that last one.

But the most significant was his decision to suspend the search for his family. 

He hadn’t ceased his Beach walks just yet, but he knew that would have to come soon. When he had been away in Capitol Knot, it had been easy to be logical, but now that he had returned to his lab, the mountain lake stared at him as if to ask, “Are you sure?”

A snowball exploded against the glass.

Startled, Heartman set his untouched whiskey on the desk with a concerned, “What on earth?” 

Another frozen projectile ruptured.

He squinted into the snow. There, a black dot in a world of white, was Sam Porter Bridges. In his arms, he held a small knapsack, cradled with too much care to be anything but the most precious of cargo. Heartman threw himself to the window and began frantically gesturing for Sam to meet him at the front door.

Jogging down the padded corridor, the rhythm of his heart monitor picked up. Without a Bridges cuff to grant entry, Sam would need to be let in by hand. He had been missing since the inauguration, though Deadman took the liberty of filling Heartman in on the secret: he had chosen to go offline with his stolen Bridge Baby. Heartman knew it was a sign of trust that Sam had staggered to his stoop, and he would not break that confidence.

As he arrived in the fireplace foyer, his palms thumped then squidged against the glass door. Sam was just trudging up the last flight of steps, looking sweaty and spent. Heartman motioned for them to halt. He then held up five fingers and began counting down on one hand, while with the other he entered hurried code on his wrist computer. It was only after his last finger dropped that he opened the door.

“I’m so sorry,” he blurted, scooping the bundle from Sam’s arms, “I had to make sure Bridges thought I was in cardiac arrest.”

“I get it,” Sam panted as he slicked away perspiration from his dirty brow, “Worry about her, will ya?”

Heartman had been bouncing the knapsack without thinking, knowing what lay within. Unzipping it, he found the tearful babe wrapped tightly in thermal blankets. A familiar feeling swelled up. It was hard to believe this little thing had lived most of her life in a pod until recently. He smiled down at Lou, “Well, hello there.”

Her whimpers subsided as she took him in with wide eyes.

“Is everything alright?” Heartman asked Sam as he began to rock Lou once more, “I can’t imagine you’d risk a trip to a Bridges facility if the matter wasn’t pressing.”

“She’s running a fever. Not eating,” Sam said as he finally began to catch his breath, “Thought you’d know what to do.”

Ah. Severed from the Chiral Network, Sam had no access to child-rearing literature, and since children were rare, parents were too. He had no one from whom to seek advice except the one (former) parent he did know.

Heartman placed the back of his hand against the infant’s soft forehead, “She is a bit warm, but I’m sure it’s nothing more than a cold. I’ll run some tests and get her settled.” Registering Sam’s state—teetering with dark eye bags and cold-chapped cheeks—he pointed toward the spa, “You rest. I’ve cut sound to the baths, you won’t be heard.”

“But, Lou-“

“Louise and I will do well enough without you.” 

Beneath his ice-encrusted hair and patchy beard, Sam looked wary.

Heartman placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder and was pleased the porter didn’t blanch at the touch, “Sam, I can assure you: I know what I’m doing.”

“Yeah. Okay,” he nodded, “Call me if she needs anything, though.”

“Of course.”

Seeming as though he might topple over at any moment, Sam lumbered toward the man-made hot springs, leaving silt and puddles in his wake. Heartman frowned and made a mental note to mop those up later.

“Not a graceful man, your father," he said, glancing down at Lou, "But fortunately for us, a good one.”

She cooed, looking far more cheerful than when she had first arrived.

“You’re not as fussy as my Amelia when she was ill, but I do need for you to be quiet when my three minutes are up. Can’t have Bridges picking up infant burbling.”

Rather than make a sound, she opened her mouth into a wide sleepy yawn.

“That’s better. Now, let’s get you nourished and hydrated.”

Tucking her close his chest, the AED slowed into a steadier beat than it had in years. 


	3. the catch. (higgs, fragile)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt:** could you write a drabble about Fragile and Higgs sharing a "forehead touch" kind of moment?  
>  **Characters:** Higgs Monaghan, Fragile  
>  **Rating:** PG-13/T (Language)  
>  **Genre:** General, Adventure, Pre-Game

Higgs peered over the cliffside, his steel-toed boots nudging pebbles off the edge. They skittered down the precipice.

“Well, shit,” he sighed.

It was a death drop.

After getting caught in timefall, the sopping ground had given way on the trail, leading to a mudslide. With their route impassable, they pivoted to their second option, only to find that it too had collapsed. Now they were covered mud, shivering, and about to descend one of the most unfortunate, sheer-faced escarpments he’d ever seen. He counted a measly handful of reliable-looking handholds and a single ledge jutting out midway. 

But at least the rain had stopped.

Fragile joined him in looking down the rocky height, “What do you think?”

“Thinkin’ we don’t have another option.”

Without a word, Fragile unclasped her pack and began ruffling around for their climbing gear.

They rarely made runs together. Business was booming, but as a consequence leadership was stretched thin. Plus, Fragile’s DOOMS were always in high demand. No, if they were ‘porting, it made sense to have them apart—training new employees or handling high-maintenance shipments. However, a large order of time-sensitive medical supplies had come through while they both happened to be at the western hub and, for the hell of it, they opted to share the load.

A mistake, he realized now. They should have diffused the risk.

Not that their trip had been bad before the mudslides. Fragile turned out to be wittier than he expected, her humor all dry and nuanced. She was surprisingly open, too. Willing to talk about her childhood, her father, how she was struggling to cope with his passing. In exchange, Higgs told her tales of an herbalist grandmother and an older brother who used to draw pictures for him as a boy. 

They didn’t exist, but Fragile didn’t need to know that.

“I’ll head down and place some anchors,” Higgs said, stripping the alloy cargo cases from his back and stacking them on the ground one-by-one, “you pack everything up so we can lower it down separately.”

“I should go first,” Fragile countered as she continued to dig out equipment, “You have a twisted ankle.”

“You patronizin’ me?” He snorted, “I was made for climbin’. Got those ‘spindly limbs,’ as you called ’em.”

“Fine. But don’t be stupid.”

“Am I ever?” He grinned as he hooked a rusted carabiner that had seen better days to his harness and tested it with a tug.

“Don’t make me answer that.”

He laughed. Again, dry wit.

They prepped, sunk a bolt into a sturdy boulder, and double-checked their knots and rigging. It took them longer than he wanted, and when they’d finally finished, he was hankering to make up for lost time. They had a reputation to keep.

With a final salute to Fragile, he lowered himself over the edge.

It was painstaking work. The rocks were slick and covered in slimy young moss from the timefall. Every time Higgs thought he had a solid grip or toehold, it began to give. The anchors he was placing didn’t want to stay either. He had always been sure-footed, as a porter he had to be, but this was a test of his skills.

Two-thirds down, his fingertips ached.

When he reached a particularly onerous crag, he had to pause and search for his next move. There was one option: put his foot with the injured ankle in a tiny crevice. Not ideal. This whole trip was shaping up to be more limiting than he preferred. He liked having alternatives. There were none to be found here.

With the utmost caution, he settled his foot into the hole and placed his weight over it.

It slipped.

The harness knocked the wind out of him as it yanked him to an abrupt stop, the cable pulling taunt. He swung over the canyon like a ragdoll. It hurt, but he hadn’t fallen. The apparatus had done its job. He was thankful for that bolt they had lodged. Daring a glance down, he tried to steady his swaying and twisting.

“Higgs!” Fragile’s scream echoed.

“’m fine!” He yelled back before muttering to himself, “Just like tryin’ to climb down soapy glass is all.”

He was on the verge of righting himself when the worn-out carabiner snapped.

The rope whipped out of his harness.

Higgs flailed, desperately reaching for anything and everything as he plummeted. He kept grazing the cliff-face but couldn’t get a good enough grasp to slow his plunge. The wind rushed past, and none of it seemed real.

He was in a free fall.

Just then, his ribs hit hard against an outskirt. Oh god, he’d landed half on that one ledge! He scrambled, furiously seeking purchase. But despite his wild kicking and clawing, his stomach kept scraping further and further off the edge.

_Ra, king of the sun; father of Ma’at, she who drives away the darkness; from you we seek our survival-_

There was a bright flare, and the smell of chiralium and sea-salt flooded his nostrils. Hands took hold of his tackle and hoisted. With the added help, Higgs was able to clamber up before he and his rescuer stumbled back and collapsed safely out of harm’s way.

They landed in a tangled heap, panting. Despite being curled into one another, Higgs’ feet still dangled off the side because there wasn’t quite enough room on the shelf for the two of them. Their faces were too close, sharing the same air, but he couldn’t care less. Fragile had jumped and snagged him in the nick of time. In relief, he let his forehead rest against hers.

“That is such a neat trick,” he said, breathless and thankful.

Hands still twisted in his harness, she gave him a firm shake, “Wouldn’t have needed it if you hadn’t had been so stupid.” Her tone was stern and reprimanding, but when she closed her eyes and pressed her brow back against his, he realized she was just concerned. 

It was a strange thing, to have someone worry about him.

He dismissed the thought.

“Let’s get the fuck off this thing.”


	4. dried leaves, ≈100 likes, 200 grams. (sam, mama)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt:** "Do you want some tea (/coffee/whatever drink you wish)?" mama & sam  
>  **Characters:** Sam Porter Bridges, Mama  
>  **Rating:** PG-13/T (Language)  
>  **Genre:** Fluff, Angst, In-Game

Sam turned the parcel over in his hands before scanning it into the terminal of Mama’s lab. It wasn’t often he transported such small cargo. Finding a place for it among the hulking cases had been a bitch, and at one point during the trip, it had slipped out of his pack and went tumbling over a bluff. Fortunately, he had also been carrying container repair spray.

Mama had no delivery dumbwaiter, and so came wandering out through the electric forcefield to retrieve the shipment herself. “On time, as always,” she greeted, “Got those circuit boards I asked for?”

“Yeah,” he said, passing her the small box, “And this.”

“What is it?” Mama furrowed her brows and began picking the ‘careful: contents fragile’ tape over the metal latch.

“Heartman ordered it,” he explained, though Sam still shifted uncomfortably in his boots at the thought of Mama receiving an unexpected package. Those were only bad news these days. “Had it sent here, though. Marked as urgent.”

With a metallic pop, the canister opened. There inside lay a neatly tied natural fiber bag with a note attached by a ribbon. A small smile broke against Mama’s mouth as she read the letter, and she seemed to curl inward. Sam was about to step back and give her some privacy—the gift and note obviously moving to her—when she looked up and offered, “You want some tea?”

The last time he had seen Mama, she had recounted her story through a trembling voice and hands. Explained how loss and emptiness were moored to her body. Told of how she chose to be haunted and purposed to live in a tomb. Yet despite all that, she teased him. Fashioned him tools. Extended invitations for tea.

He should have said no.

There were other deliveries to be made.

But instead, he began to unlatch his pack with a grunted, “Sure.”

Mama’s smile turned into something thankful, and she waved him in, cufflink clattering around her wrist.

Sam followed. After giving Lou’s tank an assuring pat, he unhooked her connection to the odradek before it could whirl to life and clap at the Beached Thing that hovered above their heads. The cooing of Mama’s daughter echoed through the warehouse, and Sam felt his stomach drop-out as his chiral allergy flared. It wasn’t called DOOMS for nothing. The sudden shift of hormones emphasized the dreaded space between things, highlighting distance. It made one aware of the void.

Mama began to fill the space with technobabble about upgrades for Bridges’ truck fleet, hence the prototype circuit boards she asked for. It was a welcomed distraction from the ominous pit in his gut.

With her addled gate, she led him to the kitchenette in the corner of the workshop. Her prosthetic was hardly noticeable, and he often forgot she had it, though she made no attempt to hide it—her jumpsuit pantleg cuffed to show off the hardware’s seamless design.

“That bother you much?” he asked as he took a seat on a stool and jerked his head toward her foot, “Your leg.”

“Not anymore,” Mama shrugged, pulling out a French press from beneath the under-island storage and placing it on the counter, “Bridges initially outfitted me with a pre-fab model, but I wanted to dabble in bioengineering, so I made my own. It got better after that—felt more like a part of me.”

“Makes sense.”

They sat in amiable silence as she flicked on the kettle and withdrew two steel mugs from the cabinet as well as artificial honey. Measuring out the leaves, she heaped three spoonfuls into the plunger and then poured hot water over the top. The warm aroma of mint and thistle curled into the air as the dried plants blossomed and unfurled. Genuine tea was a delicacy in the post-Stranding world since it had to be grown in expensive underground greenhouses. Coffee, tea, spices—most of it was synthetic these days.

As they waited for the beverage to steep, Mama leaned her hip against the counter, “You don’t strike me as much of a tea guy.”

“I’m not.”

“What’s your poison?”

“Monster Energy.”

“Yeah, definitely not a tea guy,” she grinned, revealing the gap between her teeth. “I guess I should thank you for indulging me on my birthday then.”

Sam leaned over his elbows on the counter to survey the spread, “That’s why Heartman sent you this?”

“Yeah,” her frail smile returned. “He knows I’m not…,” she paused, trying to find the words, “used to spending it alone.”

The timer chimed.

Spilling the tea out of the press and into the mugs, Mama prepped their servings. She passed Sam his cup with a murmured warning of, “Careful—hot.” 

Taking it, he gave the contents a swirl. Then he lifted it into the air, “Happy birthday, Mama.”

“Cheers, Sam,” she said quietly as she clashed her drink against his.

And for just a moment, there was a little less distance.

A little less void.


	5. tossing rocks. (mama, heartman)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt:** Heartman & Mama nerding together pls  
>  **Characters:** Heartman, Mama  
>  **Rating:** PG-13/T (Adult Themes)  
>  **Genre:** Angst, General, In-Game

“Rarely, if ever, are any of us healed in isolation. Healing is an act of communion.”

— **Bell Hooks,** _All About Love: New Visions_

* * *

“What’cha got?”

Mama had stopped answering with the typical ‘hello.’  
  
They rang each other multiple times a week with new research or ideas on how to help Sam, so it seemed silly to chirp a formal greeting at every call.

Heartman found their growing familiarity refreshing. Though he had worked with Mama and Lockne during the initial expedition out West, they were never close. The twins may have been an integral part of the Chiral Network, but they had also been young, and there were many, more experienced engineers with whom Heartman had consulted instead. But Bridges, having lost a majority of their workforce to BTs and voidouts, now relied heavily on Mama and her expertise. Which meant Heartman did, too.

Not that he minded in the least. Her measured confidence was a counterbalance to his frantic theorizing, steady when he raced and focused when he diverted course. Whenever he needed to chatter out his constellational thoughts, she was there to map them. To understand. He could blather to Sam all day (and, sometimes, accidentally did just that), but he realized that the porter’s intelligence lied in the kinesthetic, not the scientific. Mama, on the other hand, could track with his jargon. Speak his language.

The moiré chiral projection showed her lying beneath a suspended trike, wrench in hand, and grease spotting her forearms. Multitasker that she was, she had set up her chiral camera to record in her workshop so she could tinker as they spoke. She said keeping her hands busy kept her brain turning enough to keep up with his.

“Sam’s bodily fluid analyses are back from Deadman and they are fascinating,” Heartman said as he paced back and forth across his lab, articulating with his hands, “They contain chiral matter, as we knew they would, but it seems as though these excretions negate the chiral matter within BTs. As you know, when living matter meets dead, they mirror each other, resulting in annihilation. But Sam’s bodily fluids don’t mirror. They _match_. This causes the BT to, well, dissolve. Or, maybe ‘resolve’ would be a better word, if we're being philosophical about it. Who knows? Either way, this is a magnificent discovery.”

“So, I’m guessing the question is now: how are we going to utilize it?”  
  
“Precisely, how _are_ we going to utilize it,” he opened his palms, “My initial thought is in some sort of anti-BT weaponry.”

“I mean, it’s definitely possible,” Mama shuffled up onto her elbows, tapping her spanner against the floor in thought, “Sam’s blood—or whatever—just needs a vehicle to travel its target, right? So, we could encapsulate it in a projectile—a bullet or grenade or something. The ink in marking rounds and paint grenades could even be swapped out. Easy.”

“Indeed,” he thrummed his fingers against the AED as his mind revolved, “Quite a simple solution. Though I’d want to further refine the technology. Give it some elegance.”

“Heartman, considering what these things are,” she smirked, “I’m not sure you could ever call them ‘elegant.’”

“I will admit that when you look at it in a certain light, it is unfortunately vulgar.”

“Don’t worry, it’s still a good idea,” she raised an indifferent shoulder, “Telling Sam will be interesting, though.”

A sharp squeal pierced from the other side of the line. Mama jerked up, and peered out into the distance, checking on something in her lab. After a moment, she settled back down with a dismissive wave, “Sorry ’bout that. Her new favorite thing is randomly squawking. She’s fine.”

Heartman’s smile grew tight. He didn’t know much about Mama’s situation. Just that she had been pregnant with Lockne’s child, and after the attack on her hospital, had cut off all contact with her sister. But the whole thing radiated suspicion. Like how Mama had turned the ruined hospital into her lab. Or how she had adopted a moniker. Or how she had given birth over fourteen months ago, but her daughter’s vocalizations still sounded like those of a newborn.

“Are you ever going to talk to Lockne?” The question was asked in concern, but as soon as it came out, he wanted to stuff it back in. Who was he to confront her on such a thing? People in glass houses ought not throw stones.

Mama went silent. And then a fizzled clatter rang through the chiralgram as she tossed her wrench into the nearby toolbox. “Sure,” she said, lying flat against the ground. Her hands sat limply on her ribcage as she rolled her head against the concrete to sigh up at the ceiling, “Someday.”

“That was inappropriate of me, Målingen, I didn’t mean to pry.”

“No, don’t apologize,” Mama mumbled as she rubbed her forehead, leaving behind a dark smear, “Some days are just harder than others.”

“They are,” he echoed back, thoughtful.

Uncertainty undertowed between them. Heartman longed to say more—he did, truly. But it seemed as though he had already mucked things up enough. He wished she could visit, wished she would open up, wished _he_ would open up. But all the wishing in the world didn’t help.

_Thirty-seconds until cardiac arrest. Please hold on to something secure. Activating lab security measures._

“I’ll let you get to dying,” Mama said as she sat up and dusted off her hands, “In the meantime, I’ll draw up some plans for prototypes. Should have them to you in a few days.”

“Målingen-”

“Take care of yourself, alright?”

Heartman plopped down on his chase lounge, feeling defeated. His mouth opened and closed, searching for words to comfort her, to let her know she didn’t have to pretend to be fine, to let her know he too knew what it was to be trapped and alone and scared.

But all he could get out in time was, “I’ll do my best.”

_Five, four, three-_

His heart stopped as her image flickered out.


	6. holes. (fragile, sam)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt:** Prompt: Sam & Fragile (romantic or platonic) + animals? (for  Nemonus)  
>  **Characters:** Fragile, Sam Porter Bridges  
>  **Rating:** PG/K+  
>  **Genre:** Angst, General, In-Game

It was one of those days where it looked like the sun might peek out from behind the veil of clouds.

It wouldn’t, though.

It hadn’t since the Stranding.

Fragile had never really seen the sun. Everyone knew it was there, of course, had seen pictures of it, but few were old enough to remember how it hung above and beat down warmth. Her reality was chiralium overcast. But sometimes it was brighter. Sometimes, she could catch the blurred edges of a shadow forming on the ground. Sometimes, she could pretend the haze would peel away to reveal the blue above.

“My father and I used to use this trail,” she said idly to Sam as they navigated the rocky path, her words carrying over the rattle of his porter tack, “Told me this was flatland once and wild horses would roam it—hundreds of them. Can you imagine? Herds of horses out in the open, no timefall to stop them? Sounds like a children’s story.”

“Bridget had a project, called it ‘The Ark,’” Sam said, carefully sidestepping a rut, “Visited it once as a kid. Had a few horses.”

She paused, struck by his revelation, and then laughed, “Didn’t know they still existed—horses.”

Sam scuffled beside her, appearing uncomfortable. She tried to read his face, but he avoided her gaze as he explained, “The Ark was in Central Knot.”

Central Knot.

Oh.

Fragile looked out and tried to cast a mental projection of the creatures into the cliff-laden landscape. Tried to imagine them in all of their primitive beauty and unchecked fervor. Tried to envision things as they were. But it didn’t work. She couldn’t see them streaking across a plain which was pitted with ravines and marred by faults. Not with the perpetual threat of rain heavy in the air. Not with rainbows haunting the horizon. Not with strands striping the sunless gray sky.

With her still stare fixed on the expanse, she said flatly, “There are holes everywhere.”

Sam just sighed and nodded.


	7. thrushes. (higgs, fragile)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt:** Prompt from Nemonus' birthday week—April 19th: Birds  
>  **Characters:** Higgs Monaghan, Fragile  
>  **Rating:** PG-13/T  
>  **Genre:** Angst, General, Pre-Game

"while birds exploded into heavenly

hymns of rough song and the vultures

drifted like black angels and clearly nothing

needed to be saved."

— **Mary Oliver,** _At Loxachatchie_

* * *

‘Urgent: First-Class Priority Package in need of attention.’

Higgs grunted at the message as it blipped across his screen.

For years his clientele had been preppers, and their requests were often made up of the essentials: oxytocin tablets, hydroponic parts, reams of timefall-resistant fabric, etc. Rarely had he gotten a ‘first-class priority’ shipment. Precious breakables? Sure, every now and then for sentimental things. But since merging with Fragile Express, he’d begun to receive pings for his approval on these fancy delicate payloads. A broader customer base changed so much.

Higgs’ boots clopped down the metal stairs from the office to the main sorting floor. Giving nods and a few shoulder claps to the former Western Courier Co. employees he recognized, he made his way to the priority shipping hub. There, Fragile was speaking with a blue-clad Bridges porter, who was gesturing over a small metal crate with holes bored into the sides.

His curiosity piqued. It wasn’t every day one saw the competition chatting it up like they were long-standing colleagues discussing the weather.

“Oh good, you’re here,” Fragile turned as she noticed him, “Bridges needs for this to be delivered to a scientist out west, but obviously their routes don’t extend that far. It can’t be caught in timefall at any point. It also needs extra care once a day. I’d take it myself, but I need to get the ships out of the harbor as soon as possible. You up for it?”

Higgs crossed his arms and ticked his chin toward the box, “You gotta tell me why that little thing is so high-maintenance first. Seems like a mighty big fuss goin’ on over it.”

“May I show him?” Fragile asked the Bridges porter. He nodded. Popping open the fasteners, she removed the lid and reached in to withdraw the frailest creature Higgs had ever seen: a wood thrush. It was only the size of Fragile’s already small hand. She held it out to him, and without thinking, he took it.

Fuckin’ flimsy thing. Its talons skip-scattered over the leather of his gloves, emphasizing that it was nothing more than toothpick bones and feather wisps. He was about to ask why the hell he was holding something that could just fly off when he noticed that its pinions were bound.

The sight sat ill with him. How different was that metal cage from his steel bunker? How different were this creature’s fettered wings? Bringing his other hand to his mouth, he tugged off his glove with his teeth and then let it drop to the floor. With more empathy he could ever muster for any human, he slipped his fingertips along the animal’s silken brown feathers.

The fluorescent lighting glinted off the box as he glanced up.

He fought the urge to snap the bird’s neck out of mercy.

Before he could entertain that thought further, Fragile’s hand cupped beneath his to take it back. The thing cheerfully hopped over to her palm and even warbled a few notes. She set it back into the cage with a soft apology and gently replaced the lid with a snap.

The Bridges employee piped up, “Manifest says they’re going to help with ecotoxicology studies. The UCA is hoping they could tell us more about the effects of chiralium.”

Fragile looked taken aback, “They’re going to experiment on them?”

“Songbirds are special.”

“Why’s that?”

“Smart, I think.”

“Well, I for one,” Higgs interrupted, setting his hand on his chest with a slight bow, “am grateful to be a part of such a noble endeavor. I’ll tell ya what, Bridges, this might even be the beginning of a partnership between our companies. Might be able to make more of these special runs for ya’ll in the future.”

“Sure,” the Bridges employee smiled, “I’ll pass your interest along to the higher-ups.”

Fragile’s eyebrows shot into her hairline, but she covered her confusion with a diplomatic handshake as she wished the Bridges employee a friendly farewell.

As soon as the rival porter was out of sight, Higgs snatched the box from the sorting table and beelined for the surface ramp, cloak fanning out. Paperwork still in hand, Fragile went chasing after him, barking his name and shouting at him to hold up.

Her protests fell on deaf ears.

Bursting to out onto the loading dock, he clawed the cage open, letting the top clatter to the asphalt. Taking the birds out one-by-one, he steadily unpicked the lacing around their wings and set them loose. Their chatter filled the silvery sky, obscuring the rumble of far-off thunder. Fragile came to stand beside him as he watched them flutter toward the upturned rainbow forming in the distance.

“What the hell, Higgs?” She opened her arms, incredulous, “Do you know how much this is going to cost us?”

“Worth it, sweetheart.”

She rolled her eyes, shoving his forgotten glove into his chest, and then pointed an accusing finger at him, “You’re going to fix this.”

“Of course,” he said, still staring out as the birds soared up toward the rolling clouds, “But let me let you in on a little secret: it doesn’t matter.”

Scoffing, Fragile turned on heel and left him standing amongst the pieces of busted cage.

He pulled his hood up.

Timefall and thrushes pattered down.


	8. dissolve. (amelie, fragile)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt:** "i’m sorry you’re afraid of being alone." w/ Amelie and Fragile  
>  **Characters:** Amelie Strand, Fragile  
>  **Rating:** PG/K+  
>  **Genre:** Angst, General, In-Game

Samantha America Strand. Such a prestigious name for a specter. For that is what she is. No body, no Ha; no soul, no Ka. Not anymore. That is gone, eaten by cancerous cells in a terrifying act of self-annihilation. It was only appropriate. Bringer of ends that she is, why should she be spared from her own nature?

Her red dress? Not real. Her hair, her hands, her feet? Also not real. Not in any material sense. Forced to tread existence as the lonely other, the not-quite, the there-but-not-there. A foot in the living and a foot in the grave, part instinct, part vision, human but Gaia, mother but barren.

Fragile lays stripped on the sand. They often arrive as naked as the day they were born, but they bear no shame. Make no attempt to cover themselves. It makes Amelie wonder if there is something of Eden in this place. Is a beach a garden?

Waking, Fragile blinks in confusion at her surroundings. Pushing herself up by the elbows and then by the heels of her palms, her eyes dart about, trying to place herself. She spots Amelie and says nothing, but her mouth skews. Tucking her feet beneath her, she rises, steady and stable, and comes to stand beside her, taking in the ocean as it churns and swirls with sea foam and crab carcasses.

Amelie must give her credit. She is unfazed. But of course, the DOOMS is thick within her veins. It radiates from her like the pull of a void in retrograde, like a black hole. One so acquainted with the extinction factor would not be perplexed by darkened shorelines. She has undoubtedly walked far more frightening coasts than this in her nightmares.

Amelie welcomes her with a delicate wave before clasping her hands in front of her, “You’re Sam’s friend.”

“Yes,” Fragile confirms, side-eyeing her with skepticism. She is right to be cautious. Their last meeting had not gone well. She had shooed the porter off like an unwanted stray, and the rejection lingers.

“Then I should apologize.”

“Why would you do that?”

“I never wanted to be cruel,” Amelie says, her voice pitching to defense, “And I’m trying to make right the things I can.”

“You’re protective of him.”

It’s an assessment, not absolution.

“Yes,” Amelie sighs, “I raised him. Gave him everything I could. And I want to keep him close. Sometimes that comes out wrong.”

“I’m sorry you’re afraid of being alone.” Fragile’s words are taut like she is reluctant to offer the comfort but means it. And, ah, she is astute. Seeing more than what is being said. This is not the conversation Amelie intended to have.

She gives the other woman a nod, “Aren’t we all?”

Herself included. Is it any wonder that she, The Extinction Entity, aches for connection? Something to hold her together. Something to hold her down. Something to bind her up. Without it, she would float to the unknown, disintegrate into spume and whitecaps. Would she be human then?

Is she human now?

“People fear all sorts of things,” Fragile counters, “Imprisonment, torture, death.”

“Those are just names for being left to suffer without comfort. And to be witnessed and to witness another is the greatest comfort.”

“If you put it that way,” Fragile’s brow tucks inward, searching for deeper meaning in the words, scraping for their underlying implications, “I suppose so.”

Amelie reaches out and takes her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. She can feel the resistance in its tendons, the muscles of fight contracting. Leaning in, her plea is hardly more than a whisper, “Stop looking. It is time for the cycle to end. All I ask is that you forgive me for what I do.”

Amelie lets her hand slide away.

Laughs airily.

And begins her procession.

She hears Fragile query behind her, “What are you going to do?”

The tip her almond-toed shoe dips into the ocean. The tide laps up against her ankles. She continues forward, arms spread to embrace the inevitable. She fought. Oh, how she fought. But she is done. What a freedom to surrender, to live out the destiny ordained for her. What a relief, what a peace to align herself with her purpose. Her fingertips skim the surface of the water as she continues to descend.

It bursts from grey to scarlet like a beached whale splitting from its rot in the high noon sun.

Breaking into a hummed London Bridge, she lets the tune and saltwater swell against her breast.

Just before she submerges her head, accepts her untethering, she hears Fragile scream from the shore,

“What are you going to do?!”


	9. the unmasking. (fragile, higgs)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt:** How about a short something with Fragile finally getting to see under Higgs' mask (pre DS)? Either literally or metaphorically... Your pick!  
>  **Characters:** Fragile, Higgs Monaghan  
>  **Rating:** PG  
>  **Genre:** General, Pre-Game

The MULE got Higgs good. Caught him in the side with an electro-rod. He had never been great at hand-to-hand combat, Fragile thought. Tended to throw taunts and wild swings without landing any blows. His flailing style left him wide open to precision attacks. Like the jab of a rod.

As Higgs had seized on the ground from the shock, his head knocked against a rock, and it was lights out for him.

Fragile wasn't far behind, equally roughed up but conscious. She yelled a final profanity at the MULEs as they made off with their packages, furious at herself for letting it happen in the first place, before rushing to Higgs, her knees splashing into the mud as she dropped.

"Come on," she hissed to herself as a breeze hushed over the valley, the prairie stems to rippling in the leftover quiet.

Peeling off her gloves and chucking them to the side, she checked him over for injuries. Torso was fine apart from where the stun staff had collided with his side, leaving a burn. She traced upward, brushing back his cloak as she went. Tugging his hood back, she noticed an inky stain bleeding through his cowl. She went to yank it off. And then paused.

Fragile had never seen Higgs' face.

He kept it hidden beneath that neoprene gasmask. Which made sense, in a way. His routes were the treacherous ones. He didn't have the build to carry large amounts of cargo, but he made up for it in speed. Nimble and quick, he scaled up embankments and navigated perilous ravines with surety and exactitude—places where bikes and trucks could never go. He played it risky to keep up his swift reputation, so a full-face covering was smart considering how often he braved cliff faces in timefall.

What made less sense was that he wore it all the time.

While that bred some mistrust, there was no indication he was anything less than who he said. Many vouched for him—everyone from preppers to his employees. If anything, Higgs Monaghan was consistent in character, even in his faults, which was more than could be said of most people. It would have been one hell of an act if it were a lie. At most, she had caught the glint of blue eyes through the tinted goggles, but they attested to what she knew him to be—mischievous, clever, and convicted. Even when he started to show up with that golden skeleton jaw, she had just laughed at the new addition. It suited him. Gaudy and showy.

But as the temple of his mask grew darker, seeping with blood, Fragile knew it had come off. Her mouth tugged into a frown. She was uncomfortable with the idea of exposing him without his consent. But head wounds were no joke. And she wasn't about to lose her partner.

As she unlatched the half-skull piece, she wondered about its composition. The metal was curious. It had that green tinge which reminded her of chiralium. Even hummed liked it. But that was like wearing poison on one's face. Higgs might be ridiculous, but he wasn't stupid, so it must have been some alloy made to look similar. She placed the gilded overlay on top of her gloves, careful to keep it out of the mud, and then gingerly lifted his head from the ground to her lap. Hooking her hands beneath the fabric underlayer, she dragged it off, trying not to tug too much or pull too quickly.

What she found beneath was not what she had expected.

It was a bit much to take everything in at once. She had speculated disfiguration, but with the answer before her, that _might_ or _might not_ be his reason for hiding. He was handsome. High-cut cheekbones with an angular, stubble-lined jaw; thin lips with a redeeming Cupid's bow; eyes with a delicate upward slant at the corners (she recognized the shape from all the times they had studied and mocked her from behind the mask). But on otherwise flawless skin was raised scarification, jagged and black, scrawled across his forehead and where the fine hair of brows should have been. What further baffled her was that the tattoo seemed to be a series of numbers and figures. An equation. Higgs was self-educated, a big reader, but he never struck her as a mathematician. Especially to the point of permanent proclamation.

Did someone do this to him? The thought caused her heart to drop. What other reason did he have to hide it?

Fragile ran the pads of her fingers across the embossed markings.

Then she remembered why she had revealed his face.

Taking him by the chin, she turned his head to the side and examined the wound. A gash on his temple. Not deep. Just bleeding in the frightening, fountainous way all head wounds did. It was leaking into his hairline, matting the dark strands into clumps. 

Fragile worked efficiently. Readjusting him, she turned to her pack and fished out a medkit. She popped the tin open and riffled around for a disinfectant wipe, equipment rattling and clattering against the sides of the case as she shuffled. Locating a packet, she ripped it open and unraveled the pre-soaked paper cloth with a few flicks. Usually, it would sting, causing the receiver to flinch and jerk away, but Higgs was out cold, and remained eerily limp and ragdoll as she mopped up the blood. After cleaning and marrying the edges of the cut with two butterfly stitches, she replaced the cowl without disturbing the bandaging.

There.

Done.

With the immediate danger out of the way, she called into the closest distribution center and requested an evac as well as the weather forecast. _Evac en route. Clear skies until twenty-two hundred._ Good, Fragile thought to herself. Because she couldn't jump with him, unconscious as he was. As she waited, she stayed sat on the soggy ground. Holding Higgs. Keeping watch for any signs of his stirrings. Or MULEs. Or BTs (even if there was no timefall predicted).

The Express' private medical team arrived before he woke.

As they loaded Higgs into the back of the truck, a medic went to uncover his face, but Fragile caught them by the wrist.

"Let him be," she said, "I took care of the wound. Check him for a concussion when he wakes up."

If Higgs preferred to safeguard himself from the world and its elements and its people, then Fragile would honor that wish.

She knew if their roles were reversed, he would do the same for her.


End file.
